“Shit hot in the bedroom, right?” He winked.
“And the storage room,” I muttered weakly. Wickedly, he licked each of his fingers clean and I almost had another orgasm right there. When I reached for him, though, he danced away.
“You can return the favor later.” Then he pressed me up against the door and kissed me so hard that I couldn’t remember my own name. Drunk on the taste of him and in a fog from my orgasms, I couldn’t come up with a decent counter argument so I just clung to his shoulders and kissed him back. I don’t remember much about the rest of the night. I was in a sex daze.
I’m not sure where he went for the rest of the night but when the bar closed he was leaning against my Rover. I had a hard time not attacking him there but he made me drive to my condo and take him upstairs to the bedroom. Waiting could be foreplay according to Gray. Maybe he was right. I shot off like a rocket when he first entered me and came two more times before I went into my post sex coma.
I WANTED TO DO SOMETHING special for him, so with a little help from Adam, I took Gray out to Finn O’Malley’s farm the next weekend.
"I'm excited about our excursion." Gray said. "I want ice cream to be included at some point."
Just the look of him made me feel good. "Not to worry. We'll get that on the way back.”
“Sounds good.” He made a big show of licking his lips. “Make sure it has whipped cream. In my sex dream about you last night, you were wearing a whipped cream bikini.”
“You had enough energy for sex dreams?”
“Baby, every night after you wear me out, I’m dreaming about waking up and doing you again. And let me tell you, last night had me so horny this morning, I had a hard time getting out of bed. Good thing you’d gone down for breakfast because otherwise I’d have eaten you before the coffee and bagels.”
I held up a hand to forestall any further description of his fantasies. "I only brought one pair of panties with me today, so you've gotta stop talking about sex right now."
"Does my talking turn you on, Samantha?" Just the tone of his voice could get my engine working.
"You know it does."
Taking pity on me, Gray started telling me about his friend Hamilton and Hamilton's sister, who was a dead ringer for some girl who posed in Playboy. "So you harass poor Hamilton about this, knowing that it's not his sister."
"Sure, we'd never do it if it was his sister."
"Why not?"
"Because we're assholes but not that big of assholes,” Gray explained. Marine logic, I guess.
"So where we going?” he asked as we moved further west from the city center.
"Finn's farm. His dad owns—or I guess Finn, since his dad died, now owns about a hundred acres of land out west. His mom has horses."
"I don't know how to ride," Gray admitted.
"Me neither,” I answered. "I want you to teach me to shoot a gun."
"For real?" There was surprise and excitement in that question.
"Yup."
"That's some hot shit, Samantha. Now I'm the one with wet panties."
Finn met us at the back lot of his property. There were wooden targets at various angles and then just a lot of empty space. A couple of collapsible tables holding cases, ammunition and protective ear gear were waiting for us.
"So some of this stuff is Noah’s and Bo's and some is mine and Adam's. Mal doesn't believe in firearms so he sent this along for you to enjoy after you’re done shooting." Finn held up a bottle of red wine that read The Prisoner on the label.
"Nice man, what do I owe you?" Gray stuck his hand in his back pocket to reach for his wallet.
Shaking his head, Finn replied, "Nothing. It's for Sam." He slapped Gray on his back and kissed me on the cheek. There was grief in his eyes, still lingering from his father's death, and I followed my instincts by throwing my arms around his waist and squeezing him tight.
"It gets easier. I swear,” I said.
Finn hugged me back and then pushed away to hold me by my shoulders. "I can see that."
Gray
INSTRUCTING A HOT GIRL HOW TO shoot a gun was a lot different and more pleasurable than doing it with a recruit. I even found myself curling around her like some doofus in a chick flick, but I guess those doofuses knew what they were doing because it felt damn good. Holding Sam snug against my frame as we both held and shot guns was one of the best things I'd ever done with a girl before outside of the bedroom.
She shot the Ruger 357 revolver that had a barrel only a couple inches long. Her arm jerked up with every shot and not one of the bullets hit the mark that stood only fifteen feet away. I handed her the Magnum 45. It weighed over three pounds more than the little pistol but the longer barrel would have less of a kickback.
"You can do a two-handed stance or try the one-handed side stance." I reluctantly let her go but realized that the sight of her holding the big gun all on her own was just as hot. She shot all six of the bullets in quick succession and then laid it on the table.
Pulling her ear protection off, she said, "I kind of like that one. I'm surprised at the amount of recoil in the smaller guns.”
The revolvers had to be Noah’s because he was the more methodical and patient. He’d like spinning the cylinder and placing his bullets in the chamber one by one. Bo, on the other hand, would've wanted the ability to shove another magazine in as quickly as he’d emptied the one in the stock of the gun so the Glock and the Sig Sauer were probably his. I preferred my Colt 1911 Rail Gun. The .45 bullets it shot packed a big punch, and despite the fact that it took more maintenance, it had better accuracy. There was nothing quite like the toys that the Corps issued. Everything else may suck but the munitions were awesome.
"Yeah, you can get a lower recoil with a larger gun than a small gun. The accuracy of a small gun sucks. It's why in the movies when someone shoots ten rounds and misses with a small gun, it's kinda believable,” I told her.
"Plus, it’s hard to hit the ninja hero with his invisible hero force field around him."
I laughed. "That too."
We pulled our headgear back on and Sam tried out a few more of the handguns. Mentally I made a note that she gravitated toward the sub compact Beretta. If I was going to buy her a gun, that’d be a good one. After we’d torn through about sixty rounds and ten guns, Sam looked to be done in. Her hand was shaking from the unfamiliar exercise of holding five pound weights extended from her arm.
“I can’t believe they feel so heavy. It’s only a few pounds,” she complained.
“When you’re in boot, you have to hold a piece of paper in front of your face, both arms extended. After an hour, that’s the heaviest fucking thing you’ve ever held.” Sam giggled and we spent a few minutes of companionable silence picking up the brass casings around the target we’d set up fifteen feet away. Anything farther and Sam wouldn’t have been able to hit even the outer edge of the paper. "Not that I'm complaining, but why'd you bring me out here?"
She didn't look up immediately but fingered one of the bullet holes that she’d made in the black area of the target, a hit but not a kill. "Do you know the seven stages of grief?"
Not the topic of conversation I would've picked, but if she needed to work through some issues, it didn't hurt to listen. "No, but are they real and not just made up?"
"Not everyone experiences them in steps. Sometimes they run together and sometimes they overlap but yeah, you do feel the seven stages at some point. Or at least I did."
"Where are you now?"
"I think I'm a mix of four and seven. Loneliness and wanting to move forward. What about you?"
"Me?" Surprised, I fumbled with some of the casings I had picked up, the brass making clinking sounds as I recaptured them and walked swiftly back to our prep area. Packing things up, I told her, "I'm not suffering any grief."